


(a)part

by powerandpathos



Series: hybrid child [2]
Category: 19天 - Old先 | 19 Days - Old Xian
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M, Robot!Mo Guan Shan, sentient robot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: He Tian blinks. ‘Did you justlieto me?’Guan Shan grimaces. ‘I’m built to be flawed. I’m built to be human.’He Tian has forgotten: the key to the prototype is its failures. Not a servant but a companion. A friend. A partner. What has his father given him but a perfectly adept spy? Something He Tian won’t notice slipping through the cracks?‘But you’re not.’‘Right,’ says Guan Shan. ‘I’m a machine.’-[19 Days Request for@kaminari3112- He Tian is gifted robot!Guan Shan by his father, who appears to be more evolved than He Tian tought possible.]
Relationships: He Cheng/Brother Qiu (19 Days), He Tian/Mo Guanshan (19 Days)
Series: hybrid child [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894429
Comments: 10
Kudos: 147





	(a)part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaminari3112](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaminari3112/gifts).



> Thank you to one of my most wonderful supporters, [@Chris](http://kaminari3112.tumblr.com), for requesting another work from me. I've loved this theme for a very long time, and was inspired not only by the _Hybrid Child_ anime/manga by Shungiku Nakamura, but in particular by the anime _Time of Eve_ , the TV show _Humans, and the recent video game, _Detroit Become Human_. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it -- I hope to share more of these story soon!_

He Tian’s shoes squeak on the showroom’s marble floor. They’re twenty floors high and there’s no car to drive off the forecourt here. Instead, the showroom’s prizes stand one long glass wall, the occasional showpiece on a podium that rotates and occasionally catches the sinking, late-autumn sun glaring through the perspex.

He Tian’s father stands somewhere ahead of him, hard gaze and a harder mouth assessing each piece as if he doesn’t know what their innards look like—as if he doesn’t own each one.

The showroom is his. The company is his. The future of functional _homo roboticus_ is his. He Tian doesn’t know how the blundering sixty-something man who wears the badge ‘Lead Salesman’ got the role other than through an obscenely long servitude to the company, but he’s stuttered over every fifth word since Mr He walked through the automated doors with He Tian reluctantly in tow.

‘You seem reluctant, Mr He Tian,’ he says, sidling up to He Tian’s side. ‘I can assure you there won’t be better q-quality in androids than if they walked out of your own laboratories.’

He Tian lifts a brow at the man, whose bowed, bald head shines distractingly in the sunlight.

 _I’d beg to differ,_ He Tian thinks. _You haven’t seen anything like what we create downstairs._

Downstairs is all corporate, finance, and R&D—but the upstairs showroom pulls off more sales than any of their global retailers, primely placed in the Beijing company tower where all ideas are born. The novelty of it brings in interested buyers of robotics as if the showroom is only a tourist attraction, their new microchipped servant in hand like a goodie-bag of factory seconds and off-cuts.

He Tian has seen at least four new models walk out their door with their buyers in the thirty minutes he’s been on the floor. He knows some showrooms dotted around the poorer parts of the city might not make a single sale in a month, more likely to be a refurbished secondhand model than anything new. Not that He Tian or his father should be concerned. Profits haven’t slowed for three decades.

He realises the salesman is still waiting for his response.

‘I’m not keen on the idea of a new dog,’ he says, watching his father consider the Invictus model for the fourth time. _A waste of fucking time._

‘A d-dog?’ the salesman echoes.

He Tian smiles in a great show of kindness. ‘Think of it this way, Uncle. I might work to register new pets at the shelter and have them sent off to a warm home, but I’m not eager to bring one into _mine._ That’s my father’s prerogative.’

The salesman blinks and steps back. ‘Mr He Tian, I—’

‘Ignore him, Yuan Yuan,’ He Tian’s father rumbles, walking over. ‘He’ll take one whether he likes it or not.’

After some hesitation, Yuan Yuan bows.

He Tian turns to his father, his smile tight. ‘I’m twenty-one, Father. A little old for a puppy, don’t you think?’

His father is unimpressed. ‘Twenty-one? I’d like to see you act like it. Three years of adulthood gone to waste.’

‘Father—’

He cuts He Tian off, unbothered about saving face. ‘You need a guardian. Perhaps it might make you care a little more about something other than yourself for once.’

‘Yeah, because you’ve always cared so much about _your_ family.’ He Tian snorts. ‘Buying me a new toy won’t deceive me, Father. How fitting that you’re giving me something so incapable of feeling to watch my every move to try and make me care. Sounds familiar somehow, don’t you think?’

His father reacts how He Tian thought he might: he ignores him. He turns to Yuan Yuan, who has been watching the exchange ashen-faced. Small droplets of sweat have taken to form at his brow, but the room isn’t warm. Outside the windows, the view of the city below is bleak, cold and on the cusp of winter. Last week they endured a short-lived snowfall, pavements and drains left iced-over and frozen, the last of the autumn leaves fallen, and barren trees line the streets like skeletons.

Robots roam the streets, umbrellas held aloft for young children bundled in thick coats, men and women in suits leaving work. A faint mist-like drizzle matts the robots’ hair to their almost-human heads.

 _Dismal,_ He Tian thinks. _Fucking dismal._

‘Yuan Yuan,’ his father says. ‘I don’t see the prototype here.’

The man’s watery eyes widen. ‘Oh, of course, sir! Forgive me—I placed it through the back just for you.’

Mr He makes a gesture with his hand. ‘Show us.’

* * *

The prototype is a pretty thing that even He Tian hasn’t been able to get his hands on yet. He doesn’t know who trained it. He’s seen the blueprints, the tech specs, pieces of it coming together in the labs downstairs, his visual dream complete. He’s surprised to see it sitting in one of the private rooms out the back of the showroom, where there is only one small window, a selection of indoor plants and two chairs—of which the robot occupies one.

He doesn’t need to ask how the fuck Yuan Yuan got his hands on one. The building is answer enough—his father’s presence seals the deal. He’d put in a _request._

_Only the best for my son._

He’s left alone with it after Yuan Yuan reels off the specs like He Tian and his father don’t know these robots like their own insides—even more. He Tian has no doubt his father couldn’t find his own heart if he had to try, gone cold in a barren chest.

‘His name is Mo Guan Shan,’ is Yuan Yuan’s parting phrase. ‘But he’ll respond to whatever you like.’

 _Mo Guan Shan,_ He Tian thinks, trying it on his tongue. _Odd name._

He can see the broad width of his father’s shoulders through the tinted glass-pane in the door, barring the exit. There’s nowhere for He Tian to go. The message is clear: there’s no leaving the room until the Link between them is complete. His father’s parting look had been something close to a smile.

No, he can do nothing but sit in the chair beside the creature and let technology have its way with him. A pleasant female voice starts to speak from some hidden speakers, beginning the initiation for the Link, and He Tian has barely considered the russet hue of the robot’s eyes when a chip is being inserted beneath the numb patch of skin in his forearm. It won’t leave a scar, the woman tells him. He doesn’t care either way.

He stares as the robot loosens out of its stasis, something whirring beneath the shell of humanoid skin. Its posture changes, the corner of its mouth going tight and a little rebellious. There is a pinched look between its brows. It looks, He Tian thinks, remarkably unimpressed.

Its eyes fix on his.

‘Mister He Tian,’ it says.

He Tian blinks. There’s a strange lump in his throat that he doesn’t recognise. Their arms are connected by a single wire, terabytes of data being transmitted between them by the millisecond. He Tian’s whole life is being uploaded to Mo Guan Shan’s internal systems. In a few minutes, it will know him better than anyone has ever known him his whole life.

That single thought is the most decent reason he’s ever had when someone asks him why he, the youngest heir to the world’s most prolific robotics manufacturer in the world, doesn’t have a robot of his own. The thought terrifies him.

He doesn’t want to know what it sees, what it ‘thinks’, what systematic conclusions it makes in response. He doesn’t want to be around something that can only ever get things right. What a tragedy for something to know him so completely.

The minutes tick by in silence while the Link completes. He Tian doesn’t know what to say.

‘I’m your new Companion, Mo Guan Shan, but you can call me whatever you want. Our Link’s complete. Is there somethin’ you want me to do for you now?’

He Tian stares at it. He knows robots aren’t all built with polished, clipped pronunciation. Mo Guan Shan has the accent of an inner-city boy moved out to the country, a little rough, a little like it forgets itself and only grabs at the stringy ends of it running through his fingers just before it’s too late. He Tian’s struck by the sound of it. It suits him.

Immediately, He Tian knows he won’t be calling him anything else.

 _Something I want?_ he thinks. _Ah, yes._

He Tian says, ‘Open the door.’

* * *

‘This is my flat,’ says He Tian. ‘The fire’s over there—I’d tell you to light but you don’t get cold.’

‘You do.’

He Tian pauses. ‘There’s a grocery store down the street—you can get anything there for cooking with. I usually just get takeout from—’

‘Pei Kou Tang. Yeah, I know.’ The robot taps its head. ‘I got everythin’ in here.’

‘Right,’ says He Tian. He considers the new permanent fixture in a home that has always been his own.

He gets a cleaner twice a week, someone who picks up his laundry on the weekends, a gardener to tend to the houseplants and the vegetable and herb containers on his balcony that he’s never taken a single cutting from. Mo Guan Shan will take the place of all of that—and more. He Tian’s father has placed his very own, very useful spy behind He Tian’s door.

He Tian chose the apartment and the furnishings—those are his, at least. Three years here and he still enjoys the beechwood countertops and oak flooring, the chrome appliances he’s barely used except for the espresso button on the coffee machine. The white bedding in each room is organic, the neutral living area pockmarked with secondhand trinkets he hired a designer to find, catalogue-perfect. He knows when to hire the staff; he knows when a job is above him. He looks at Mo Guan Shan.

‘I’m going out,’ he says, with a curt nod at himself. ‘You can amuse yourself here.’

The robot blinks its red eyes at him. ‘I can’t be more than five hundred metres from you,’ it says. ‘My security systems are gonna kick in—I’ve got the Human Protection function. You know this.’

‘I do,’ He Tian says, heading for the front door, picking up the coat and gloves he’d just left on the coat rack and stool, still damp with drizzle. Guan Shan isn’t a stay-at-home humanoid who can look after the kids or clean the apartment. He doesn’t spend twenty-two hours on a warehouse production line with two hours to charge. He’s built to be at He Tian’s side.

‘He Tian,’ the robot starts, standing right where He Tian left it by the kitchen island. It makes no move to stop him—it can’t. It can’t move He Tian at all except to protect him, and there’s no need for that now.

‘Stay here,’ He Tian says, pointing a finger. ‘That’s an order.’

* * *

|| SYSTEM ERROR: ALERT: TIER GREEN.

> >> Human companion [He Tian] outside of location parameter: 500 metres.
> 
> _Locating..._
> 
> >> Companion [He Tian] not found.
> 
> _Locating..._
> 
> >> Companion [He Tian] not found.

_Locating..._

> >> Companion [He Tian] not found.

|| SYSTEM ERROR: ALERT: TIER ORANGE.

> >> Human companion failed to locate.

|| OBJECTIVE: Initiate Tracking Sequence.

> Memory recall…
> 
> >> 1 memory found.
> 
> _> > ‘I’m going out.’_
> 
> Decipher...
> 
> >> ‘Out’. Also known as ‘outside’, ‘away’, ‘dining out’, ‘alcohol consumption at venue’.
> 
> _Analyse ‘venue’; cross-reference human companion (He Tian) location, time-frame: 120 days._
> 
> >> 23 venues found.

|| OBJECTIVE: Locate human companion [He Tian].

> >> Proceed to venue 1 of 23.

* * *

The bar is lively tonight. Financial end is coming up and the tables are full with accountants and business managers either stressed enough with the deadline to drink or relieved enough to have finished their work already so they can do the same.

He Tian doesn’t have to concern himself with that, and hasn’t for some time. It irks him that his colleagues are so eager to drink with the rest of the CBD wrabble, cock-sucking for promotions and New Year bonuses and flaunting their newest acquisitions, but the drinks are decent and toilets don’t smell like piss every night.

By the time he gets there, the drinks already come easy and She Li is courteous enough to buy the first two rounds.

He must want something.

‘I still can’t believe he got you Linked,’ says She Li, yellow eyes glinting as he sets his elbows on the table He leans in with unabandoned intrigue and a simmering curiosity He Tian’s never liked the look of. ‘What did he do, put a ball and chain on you? Threaten you with a whip?’

Across the table, Pan Wan Li groans. ‘Is that just you fantasising your own porno?’

The others chortle, but He Tian grimaces. ‘That’s my father.’

‘That’s your CEO,’ She Li adds, leering.

Wan Li claps He Tian on the back, heavy-handed, and says to She Li, ‘That just makes it better for you, doesn’t it?’

There’s a hoot of laughter. Wan Li lifts his hand away when He Tian jerks away the contact, and She Li gestures for them to simmer down.

‘Enough about my sex life,’ he says. ‘What plans have you got for yours, He Tian? It’s a Companion, correct? A pretty one?’

He Tian rolls his eyes behind the rim of his glass. He’s got to be careful. She Li’s plied him with drinks before—enough to make He Tian regret it for weeks after when he’d stumbled home to his bed and only recalled what he’d said at 3am, half-sober, bleary-eyed and lurching to the bathroom. He takes a careful sip.

‘Unlike you,’ he says, ‘I don’t like to fuck the product.’

Wan Li snickers, nudging Jing Wu in the side. They’re settling in for the show.

‘You haven’t got the evidence that I do,’ says She Li.

‘Evidence?’ He Tian counters. ‘I don’t need evidence. It’s legal now, isn’t it? I’m not going to waste my time following you back and forth to android brothels.’

She Li’s smile goes thin. ‘Might pay someone to do it though, mightn’t you.’

He Tian shrugs. ‘You’re good at your job. I can’t be bothered to sit in an interview to replace you for being indiscreet.’

She Li grins. ‘You fuck.’

‘Likewise,’ He Tian says, raising his glass and smiling back. They both down their glasses.

Wan Li cranes his head around and motions a passing waiter, slipping between standing parties of corporate figures. _Another round,_ he mouths at her.

‘He’s a redhead,’ He Tian says after a moment. He’s not sure why he says it. ‘Prototype.’

Jing Wu whistles between his teeth. ‘The _Compatriot_. Didn’t know that one had been finished. Only the best from daddy.’

‘It’s not quite a gift. I have to review it before the board on Friday. Father’s single request.’

‘And where is this redheaded prototype?’ She Li asks. ‘You didn’t want to share with the team?’

‘ _Daddy_ didn’t teach me much about sharing.’

She Li snorts. ‘Even you can’t override the five-hundred-metre rule. That’s a breach. Where is it?’

‘Fuck if I know,’ He Tian mutters. ‘I left it at home.’

‘Like a pet? It’ll run after you.’ She Li leans back as the waiter comes over, placing new drinks on the table and clearing away old glasses. When she’s gone, She Li adds, ‘Maybe you like the chase. Does it make you feel wanted, He Tian?’

‘Jealous I’ve got a new piece of metal, She Li?’

‘They don’t do much to warm the bed.’ She Li smiles. ‘But I bet you’ve installed the setting for that, haven’t you?’

‘You’re abhorrent.’

She Li’s smile has gone thin. ‘You’ll thank me when your little redheaded piece starts to—’

‘Mister He Tian.’

The table goes silent, the noise from the surrounding bar suddenly deafening, and Wan Li is the first one to start laughing when they catch sight of the figure standing at He Tian’s shoulder.

‘Oh, this is too good,’ Jing Wu murmurs.

‘Mister He, my systems alerted me you were more than five hundred metres away. I had to locate you.’

He Tian swears under his breath, but gets to his feet. ‘You disobeyed a direct order,’ he says.

‘If I didn’t locate you, I’d have to alert—’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ He Tian mutters. He pulls on his coat, and nods at the others. ‘I’ll wire you for the bill.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ She Li says. ‘I’ve covered it. I’ll walk with you.’

He’s at He Tian’s side before He Tian can protest, and suddenly they’re out the bar and onto the street, and the cold air is an affront to He Tian’s liquor-warmed cheeks. He ignores the robot, who wanders behind him in his neutral standard-issue uniform, looking out of place without a coat or scarf. He Tian has a strange half-moment where he considers giving it his own.

‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ He Tian says to She Li, while gesturing to the robot.

‘No need,’ She Li says. ‘Cancel the order. I’ll walk with you a bit. I want to show you something.’

Silently, He Tian follows him. They walk half a mile through cold, half-empty streets, pavements slick with fallen leaves and rain that will freeze in a few hours as the temperature continues to plummet. Eventually the streets grow wide and shop-fronts and business towers give way to waterfront bars and residential apartments on the riverside. Steam lifts from the water.

As they cross the street, He Tian recognises the bridge that She Li is walking towards. His head has gone to cotton wool, and he stumbles more than once as he walks. The robot is a strange, insistent shadow at his back. He can feel its eyes on his back, watches it assess every danger—passing cars, patches of slick leaves, a crack in the pavement.

He Tian looks at She Li, unimpressed.

‘I’m not throwing him in the river.’

‘It was _it_ earlier,’ She Li says. ‘Now it’s him?’

They stop when they’re midway over the bridge. Light from the buildings bordering the riverbank only stretches so far, and the strip of water in the middle of the river is dark and murky.

He Tian knows what lies below: the wiring from a fallen streetlamp during a storm, now left sitting in a live net of electricity beneath the surface. He knows there are plans to have it pulled out by the city council, but there’s been no movement for a while. Boats haven’t passed through, organisms have been electrocuted—disheartened robot-owners have taken to throwing the servants off.

‘It was _fuck it_ , earlier,’ says He Tian. ‘Now it’s kill it?’

‘You basically said your father forced it on you. I’m reminding you that you have options.’

The openness of the river whips cold air around He Tian’s face, and he can feel his eyes watering and the inside of his nose starting to sting. He looks behind him.

Does Guan Shan understand what’s being insinuated? Does he understand they’re discussing his end? Is he even capable of being afraid other than an internal system built on self-preservation—just like a human? His body would be ruined, dragged by the current into the wire.

How long would it take?

‘If control is what you want,’ says She Li, ‘this is your answer.’

He Tian frowns. He doesn’t like the gleam in She Li’s eyes, part-drunkenness, part-euphoria. He doesn’t like that part of She Li is right. A younger version of himself might have listened to She Li—a younger version of himself would’ve done it already before She Li even had a chance to make a suggestion. What better way of saying _fuck you_ to his father than throwing his gift—his _security camera_ —right in the river?

When he says nothing, She Li grabs Mo Guan Shan by the wrist and tugs him over. The railing separating them is only short—an easy climb. The fall is significant.

‘Go on,’ She Li croons. ‘Off you go.’

Guan Shan looks to He Tian. ‘I don’t understand, Mister He Tian.’

He Tian swallows a tight lump in his throat. Why isn’t he saying anything?

‘Jump,’ says She Li. ‘Go on. On behalf of your master—jump over.’

He Tian lurches forward as the robot climbs over the edge, the manufactured arteries standing out starkly against the thin skin over its wrists, but it doesn’t go further. Its grip is tight and unyielding around the railing. Even if She Li broke its wrists, it would still hold on, and it would feel no pain.

‘Jump,’ says She Li.

Behind them, a car horn blares, jolting them, but the car doesn’t stop.

Guan Shan says, ‘I can’t jump. Unless He Tian can’t make the order himself, I can’t take a command from someone else. It’s against my programmin’ to self-destruct.’

She Li looks to He Tian. ‘Tell him to jump.’

‘It’s against my programmin’ to self-destruct or take an action that might—’

‘Tell him to fucking jump, _He Tian._ ’

He Tian shakes his head, lips pressed to a thin, disapproving line.

She Li leans into the railing, has his lips too close to the robot’s ear. ‘So, say I killed your master, you’d listen to me then?’

Guan Shan’s posture goes rigid. ‘D’you wanna kill him?’ he asks. He looks between She Li and He Tian, evaluating, making no sudden moves. He Tian wonders what it’s concluded.

She Li rolls his eyes, pushes away. ‘So boring,’ he yawns—but then his hand shoots forward.

The heel of his palm slams between Guan Shan’s shoulder blades, but the robot barely moves. He Tian sucks in a breath, lungs burning with held oxygen. When She Li realises he’s failed, he laughs at himself and pulls away.

He Tian’s had enough.

‘Get away from there,’ he mutters, gripping the robot by the arm and holding on until it’s steady on the pavement. ‘You stepped over the fucking line, She Li.’

She Li pulls a face. ‘Learn to take a joke, He Tian.’

‘That wasn’t a joke,’ He Tian growls, shoving a finger in She Li’s face, ‘and I’m getting sick of people whispering in my ear all the time trying to tell me what to fucking do.’

‘You used to be so much more fun when you were younger,’ She Li says, with a sour look that is almost wistful.

‘Maybe,’ He Tian replies again, starting to walk away, Guan Shan in tow. ‘But you haven’t changed a bit.’

* * *

Guan Shan’s called a taxi by the time they’re back in the city and on one of the main streets, by which time He Tian’s shivering lightly from the cold. The streets are close to empty now, only frequented by the occasional car, taxi, or food delivery e-bike zipping by. When the cab turns up, He Tian’s face feels numb.

‘Evening,’ says the driver, nodding at them in the rearview mirror. An android. ‘Cute couple,’ it says blithely, not expecting a response.

For a minute, nothing else is said. It strikes He Tian only then that they’re sharing a back seat. Robots don’t share spaces with their humans—as if they are them. He should’ve taken the front passenger seat. There’s no law against it—it would damage too many services: sex and protection for the most part—but it’s still strange.

He Tian clenches his jaw. ‘We’re not—’

‘Thanks.’

He Tian looks to Mo Guan Shan.

It shouldn’t have said a thing; it should have refuted the falsehood. He Tian waits until they pull up outside the apartment, until Guan Shan has pressed the button for the elevator, opened the front door to He Tian’s flat, taken He Tian’s coat and put it back on the hanger, and then—

‘Why did you say that?’ he asks.

Guan Shan glances at him. ‘I haven’t said anythin’—’

‘In the taxi. You said _thanks_.’

‘I thought it might be easier than explainin’ the reality.’

He Tian shakes his head. ‘The reality of you being next to me in the backseat? Why didn’t you take the front seat?’

‘I forgot.’

He Tian blinks. ‘Did you just _lie_ to me?’

Guan Shan grimaces. ‘I’m built to be flawed. I’m built to be human.’

He Tian has forgotten: the key to the prototype is its failures. Not a servant but a companion. A friend. A partner. What has his father given him but a perfectly adept spy? Something He Tian won’t notice slipping through the cracks?

‘But you’re not.’

‘Right,’ says Guan Shan. ‘I’m a machine.’

They stare at each other for a minute, then the sound of He Tian’s stomach growling permeates the silence. He can’t remember the last time he ate. This morning, before work? At the office? The day has been a blur. Guan Shan’s knuckles wrapped around the railings of the bridge stands out so starkly in his head.

‘There’s not much here,’ says Guan Shan. ‘I’ll get groceries before they close.’

‘You can’t leave,’ says He Tian. ‘The rule.’

‘It’s less than five hundred metres.’

He goes—He Tian could stop him, could tell him to order his favourite takeout in five minutes even if it doesn’t do much for a body already used to large amounts of alcohol and an average eating schedule that works out at one meal a day, most of it oily and fried. Instead he lets the robot go. It’s close to midnight and he’s feeling too tired to argue. He doesn’t know when he last had a home cooked meal by someone other than a hired chef.

The apartment becomes his own again for twenty minutes, and he takes a shower and sets the light low and looks out at the city through the windowed wall that lets him see too much and not enough. So many machines; so many humans on autopilot. Sometimes he’s not sure whether he’s the former or the latter.

Guan Shan comes back soon enough, carrying a tote bag of fresh vegetables and boxes of grains. He Tian’s cupboards are well stocked but barely used. No doubt the robot will know the exact contents, have a thousand recipes at his disposal with only five ingredients.

He Tian props his hip against the counter as Guan Shan ties an apron around his waist and begins to reach for knives and small dishes with deft, familiar fingers.

‘Need a hand?’ He Tian asks after a few minutes.

‘No,’ says Guan Shan. When He Tian ignores him and leans forward to reach for an undisturbed bell pepper, Guan Shan bats his hand away. ‘Fuck off.’

He Tian gapes, snatching his hand back. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he demands. He straightens. ‘Did you just tell me to—’

‘My system was updated approximately twenty-three minutes ago,’ Guan Shan says, slicing vegetables with dangerous precision. ‘Mister He Cheng allowed obscenities to be included as part of my vernacular. The frequency of _fuck_ was set to often.’

‘Son of a bitch,’ He Tian mutters under his breath. He watches Guan Shan cook for the next twenty minutes thinking of his brother’s odd sense of humour and the way Guan Shan’s voice moves around the word ‘fuck’.

* * *

He makes hot pot in thirty minutes, and it’s midnight when He Tian finally sits down to eat at the kitchen island counter and pronounces it’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted.

The robot nods at the praise, doesn’t smile.

 _Character trait,_ He Tian thinks. He wonders if it’s been programmed not to; he wonders what its parameters are for triggering the curve of its mouth. He wonders why he cares. He knows, of course: he’s not immune to working out the mechanics of how a thing works, human or robot. Not immune to unwrapping, pulling on the end of it like a sweet wrapper and playing with it between his fingers. Discarding it when it breaks down to the microplastic.

Guan Shan, he thinks, eating the robot’s stew, is only another toy.

‘Really,’ he says again. ‘They didn’t skimp on your cooking aptitude.’

‘I’m good for dinner parties,’ Guan Shan replies, washing up the pot. The rest of the stew sits portioned out into glass containers, left too cool on the countertop.

He Tian arches a brow. Was that sarcasm?

‘Shame you can’t eat this,’ he says.

‘Even if I tried, the food would go into a depository, which you’d have to—’

He Tian snorts, chewing. ‘I understand how it works, thank you.’

Behind him, the TV is turned on in front of the sofa, some old black-and-white Hollywood movie playing out in the background, volume set to low. Guan Shan had turned it on while he cooked, as if he needed the mental distraction, his mind unpleasantly preoccupied with other thoughts, like some human who’d had a long day at work. Does he think still of She Li’s voice in his ear on the bridge, or is it a data cache stored for some potential later purpose?

‘It’s like fucking Twilight,’ He Tian says around a mouthful of stew. ‘What re-make are we on now? The third?’

‘Fourth.’

‘Right,’ says He Tian. He gestures vaguely. ‘No digestive system, just an empty shell.’

‘Vampires were human once. Wouldn’t that suggest I’ve got some kinda life in me?’

He Tian’s brows lift. ‘Would it? Some are born, not made,’ he says, as if this is an unadulterated fact. ‘Some have hearts that don’t beat slowly—they just don't beat at all. Is that living?’

Guan Shan pulls the plug on the kitchen sink. Water gurgles down the drain, and he’s slow to dry his hands in the towel slung over his shoulder. Thinking. His eyes have gone behind He Tian—to the TV.

‘Better than this,’ he says eventually. ‘I ain’t got a heart at all.’

Somewhere, an alarm bell is ringing in the back of He Tian’s head. This conversation shouldn’t be happening. This is more than programmed flaw.

Carefully, He Tian asks, ‘Do you want one?’

‘You think it’d make me feel?’

‘It’s only anatomy,’ He Tian says, and then: ‘You don’t want to feel.’

On the TV, a beautiful dark-eyed woman gathers an orange cat to her chest, her white coat soaked from the rain. She’s breathless with relief, and a man appears behind her in the alleyway. When He Tian glances back, Guan Shan’s eyes have gone flat and strange while the moviestar couple kiss.

He Tian gets to his feet. ‘I’ve finished,’ he announces. ‘Follow me.’ Guan Shan’s gaze snaps to his, and he follows He Tian down the corridor. He Tian’s bedroom lies at the end of the hallway; to his left, a small pantry where bags of rice and storage boxes and the vacuum live. A charging point blinks on the opposite wall.

‘You can charge here when you need,’ He Tian says. ‘Take a chair if you want from the kitchen.

Guan Shan replies in a strange voice, ‘I don’t need to sit. Not like I’ve got feelin’s in my legs or anythin’.’

He Tian shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. You’re not sharing my bed.’

‘Fuck off,’ Guan Shan mutters.

It startles He Tian less this time; he warms to the antagonism. He Tian knocks his shoulder against the robot’s as he passes.

‘Good night,’ he says.

The robot nods once, and when He Tian glances behind him, his gaze has moved from the closet back to the kitchen as if he can’t pull himself away from it. The credits have started to roll on the TV, jolting orchestral music playing out mutely, the screen casting shadows on the opposite wall.

When He Tian steps into his bedroom and moves to close his door, he doesn’t look at the closet, or the robot standing silently before it, and he doesn’t think about Guan Shan standing in there at night, in the dark and alone.

* * *

‘You’re on time,’ says He Cheng, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘Are you feeling well?’

He Tian gives his brother a look as he takes his seat around the table in the meeting room. The glass walls let him see out over the city behind him, and into the rest of the corporate office space in front of him, which will turn frosted-over and translucent once the meeting begins.

He sets his coffee cup on the table, ignoring the hidden looks of contempt from the other colleagues. He knows meetings must go smoothly when he acts like himself and doesn’t turn up. His presence is a spanner in He Cheng’s methodical works.

‘Well enough,’ he says, undoing a button on his shirt that feels too tight at his throat. ‘I have a new alarm clock.’

‘Hm,’ says He Cheng from the head of the table, knowing full well what he means. ‘Where is it?’

‘Charging room,’ He Tian replies. ‘I don’t need something looming over my desk all day.’

Guan Shan hadn’t let him sleep longer than he wanted to, had gruffly lured him from bed with breakfast ready and his clothes prepared, coffee hot and bitter in a flask—just as he liked it—taxi waiting in the apartment building’s _porte-cochère._ This time, without discussion, scowling, Guan Shan took the front seat.

‘I couldn’t have been late if I tried,’ He Tian tells the room, ‘and believe me, I do.’

A few people snicker, but He Cheng uses one of their father’s usual tactics: he ignores He Tian, swiping through a tablet set out before him in advance of the morning’s meeting.

Jian Yi and Zhengxi show up eventually. They catch onto the mood and Zhengxi makes a thoughtful sound, holding his glasses in his hand, propping the end of an arm against his lips.

‘It’s probably about time,’ he says, while a few latecomers filter through the door. ‘From a marketing point of view.’

He Tian smiles, leaning forward. ‘What _is_ your point, Zhan Zhengxi? Maybe you and Jian Yi should switch roles if you want to think like a public mediator.’

Zhengxi shrugs. ‘Any customer might walk into a salesroom and ask themselves if there’s something wrong with the product if the CEO’s son won’t have one.’

‘There is something wrong with the product,’ He Tian says, catching He Cheng’s eye.

‘Ah, yeah,’ Jian Yi drawls, pushing back so his chair balances precariously on two legs like a fucking highschooler. ‘An android that can’t lie and tell you you’re as attractive as you think you are.’ He _tsks._ ‘What a shame.’

Someone snorts, others hide their mouths behind paperwork and tablets. He Tian drinks from his coffee and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t tell them about last night, about the prototype’s functionality that allows it to do just that: lie.

He Cheng clears his throat, and the room goes silent and focussed.

‘Shall we begin?’ he asks.

There are no more teasing remarks, no mention of He Tian’s new acquisition. None of the disturbing sexuality of She Li’s comments from last night, which feels like a fever dream now that He Tian is caffeinated and sitting in an office where his brother is present and perpetually professional.

It only lasts half an hour. He Tian comments only when he has to, leaves the coordinators in his team to come forward with their reports or updates or problems. His work in Visuals doesn’t change much, and managing R&D occupies most of his time if he’s not in the lab. They’ve all but mastered how to replicate human skin, human hair, the anatomical movement of a body made of muscle and bone and a thin layer of lab-grown tissue to cushion the chunks of metal and vein-like wiring.

It doesn’t go deeper than that, a surface level perfectionism—he passes his work onto ABC, a team of programmers and psychologists who train the empty, pretty shells for cognition and behavioral therapy. He rarely bothers to see how they end up so long as they pass the tests. When he’d last seen Guan Shan’s model, known simply as ‘Red’, he’d been signing off on swatches for eye colour and the shade his hair would turn when it caught the sun. He Tian knows that there are freckles on Guan Shan’s stomach and that his shoulders are stronger than they seem. He Tian designed him, approved him, built something pleasing to the eye.

Who, he wonders, got to decide what sort of creature would live beneath it all?

‘You’re still here,’ He Cheng says when the meeting finally comes to an end.

He Tian’s grateful when it’s over; he would’ve happily sat at his desk until it finished, but he knows how notoriously difficult it is to grab a moment of his brother’s time.

‘I wanted a word with you,’ says He Tian. He curls his fingers around his flask, still hot, and gets to his feet.

He Cheng glances up, swiping sheets of paper together into a neat stack. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the board in ten, He Tian—’

‘You can give me at least eight—’

‘Look, if this is about the swearing—It was Qiu’s idea of a joke—’

‘Can robots develop sentience?’

He Cheng goes still.

He looks at He Tian for a long moment, which must waste at least a minute of his time, before a look of exhaustion washes over him.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he mutters, heading for the door.

He Tian grabs him by the arm. ‘I’m serious. Can they? I get the briefs from you; I make sure R&D know what they’re doing; I make the robots look a certain way. What was the brief for Red? What’s it meant to be for?’

‘He Tian—’

‘Is this some big industry secret that makes them more marketable when people buy them? Did Father tell you not to tell me? C’mon, Cheng Ge. You can tell me. Tell me.’

His brother is looking at him like he’ finally, after all these years, lost it. ‘He Tian,’ he says, his voice steady. He holds He Tian’s gaze until He Tian thinks he’s about to spill some unknown truth, finally giving him the key. But all he says is, ‘They are _hardware._ Technology. Equipment.’ He raps his knuckles against his tablet, eliciting a dull knocking sound. ‘They’re computers. They’re intelligent—but artificially. Anything they feel is manufactured.’

Before He Tian can comment he says, ‘No—it’s not even a feeling. It’s a projecting of an emotion. You’ve seen how the programming works. Ten thousand expressions from people all over the world truncated into a piece of clever machinery. They show what they think you want to know. That’s what they’re designed to do.’ He shakes his head. ‘Father should never have gotten you this…’

‘Why did he want me to have that one?’ He Tian demands. ‘Why did he want it made like _that_?’

He Cheng asks, ‘Why did you give it red hair and eyes?’ He lifts his brows. ‘Because you _wanted_ to.’

‘Brother—’

A knock sounds at the door to the room, and the handle twists. She Li’s silver head appears around the frame.

‘Sorry to interrupt. He Tian, have you got a minute?’

He Tian’s look flattens. ‘For you? No.’

She Li waves a tablet in his hand. ‘I need to go over some of your team’s expenditure.’

He Tian sighs. ‘Why are you always such a pain in my ass, She Li?’

He Cheng says nothing, only slips silently past She Li and through the door, leaving the two of them alone.

‘If this is about last night,’ He Tian starts.

‘What about last night?’ She Li says smoothly, taking a seat.

The meeting room is probably booked, but He Tian sits down anyway with a sigh, accepting the files She Li wires across to him, and She Li makes no remark on anything but the business and its finances.

The rest of the day moves on like that, meetings rolling into the next, colleagues snagging him before he can catch his breath. He’s looking forward to tomorrow, Wednesdays blocked off for work in the lab, scrutinising engineered skin cells under a microscope or the sloped arch of a soft foot that has never taken a step. He oversees the look of them, the functional movement, bodies built for waiting tables or a moving across a football pitch; mouths soft and kind, fit for a residential care facility or a hospital or a children’s nursery. Fit for purpose, always.

He Tian loses himself in meetings and eats lunch at his desk. He didn’t realise how much work had piled up from shirking all his responsibilities. There’s a new contract proposal from Universal Studios that looks interesting and he spends some time rooting through the relevant database files. It turns into a meeting with the R&D team, who are more than happy to give He Tian a minute of their time if he’ll finally give them a minute of his, and then he meets with She Li again in the afternoon to discuss the final implications of it based on the brief from the board.

Somehow, it’s gone nine by the time he surfaces from spreadsheets and his stomach is tight with hunger. He swears when he catches sight of the time.

Guan Shan is the only one left by the time he gets downstairs. He stands in a room behind Lost Property, a row of empty charging stations blinking white lights along the wall. Guan Shan’s light is green.

When He Tian opens the door, Guan Shan’s head turns to look at him.

‘Sorry,’ He Tian says tiredly. ‘I got caught up.’

He doesn’t know why he’s apologising, but Guan Shan only shrugs and steps away from the short charging podium, brushing himself down as if he’s gathered dust from standing in one place too long like a piece of furniture.

‘How was work?’ Guan Shan asks as they head towards the lobby.

‘It was fine. I have a meeting on Friday to discuss you.’

‘Like, me as an individual?’

‘As a product for mass market.’

Guan Shan glances at him. ‘How am I doin’?’

‘Hard to tell,’ says He Tian. ‘It’s been twenty-four hours—and you’re a Companion model, which is even harder to gauge.’

‘You’re not goin’ home to an empty apartment. Counts for somethin’, right?’

He Tian snorts quietly. ‘I suppose.’

The building lobby is empty when they leave, and He Tian nods at the security guards behind the desk and on the doors working the nightshift. Outside, an idling taxi rolls over when Guan Shan lifts his hand, and He Tian catches himself as he opens the passenger door.

They look at each other, then Guan Shan climbs in. He Tian shakes his head, ducking in beside him on the backseat. Guan Shan passes over an address to the driver while He Tian’s gaze drifts out his window—and stills.

Outside, gone unnoticed as they’d walked out into the wintry air, is She Li.

He’s smoking a cigarette, the collar of his coat drawn up against the cold. His eyes are bright as they stare back at He Tian, having just watched him open a car door for a robot and sidle in beside it.

The car pulls away, and He Tian stares ahead. If Guan Shan noticed—which, probably he did—he says nothing. Why would he?

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he slides it out to see a link Guan Shan has sent to his phone. He sees oyster mushrooms and an orange and ginger sauce, and nods.

‘Looks good.’

‘I’ve ordered the ingredients,’ says Guan Shan. ‘They’re already at the apartment. Maybe one night this week you’ll eat earlier than fuckin’ midnight.’

He Tian smiles. ‘Maybe.’

* * *

He showers while Guan Shan makes a start on dinner, and considers the robot with some surprise when it slides a chopping board and clean knife across the counter like an offering.

‘Oh?’ He Tian says.

‘I’ve made an analytical assessment,’ says Guan Shan.

He Tian’s bemused. ‘What kind of assessment?’

‘The kind that says you _might_ be a willin’, learnin’ participant in the activity and not fuck it all up.’

‘Did that take you twelve hours in a cupboard to figure out?’

‘No. Zero-point-three-six-five seconds.’

He Tian gives him a flat look. ‘Go put your apron on.’

It turns out that Guan Shan is a good teacher.

He shows mannerisms that make He Tian smile: short irritations, his tongue snapping on occasion, and He Tian doesn’t know whether he starts to make the mistakes on purpose just to have Guan Shan scold him.

He knows all robots have personalities that get generated and carefully crafted by ABC, some more carefully measured than others, and that no two robots of the same model are really the same, a reality made impossible by self-governing algorithms that make them wildly different from the thing they were when they stepped off a production line.

He Tian hadn’t expected to like this one.

‘Did my father want you to be made like that?’ he asks, carefully slicing through spring onions at an angle—like Guan Shan showed him.

‘Like what?’

He Tian searches for the word. ‘Recalcitrant,’ he settles on. ‘Like you have a chip on your shoulder. Like you’re… trying to make me grateful for all that I have and all that you don’t.’ He grins. ‘It’s extremely irritating.’

Across the counter, Guan Shan frowns slightly. ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘I dunno what your father wanted—I’m Linked with you, not him. I mean, I wasn’t really _awake_ until we were Linked to be aware of anythin’ else except on a basic level.’ He reaches for a thumb-sized piece of ginger and starts to peel off the skin with the back of a spoon before grating it into a bowl. ‘You were the first person I knew,’ he says. ‘The first human I really _saw._ ’

‘Hm,’ says He Tian. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Yeah.’

He Tian pauses. ‘Do you know R&D call you the compatriot?’

It takes Guan Shan a minute. He reaches for an orange, grating the washed zest into the bowl with the ginger. After a moment of processing, he asks, ‘’Cause Red?’

‘Among other things,’ He Tian allows. ‘Companion. Loyalty. Devotion. That’s what I kept in mind when I designed your face.’

‘You were designin’... an ideal friend?’

‘You’re a Companion model,’ He Tian says simply.

He finishes dinner at close to ten, leaving Guan Shan to wash the dishes while he eats. He goes onto the balcony for a cigarette, and when he comes back in Guan Shan is simply standing there. Awaiting instruction.

‘I’m going to sleep,’ He Tian tells him, sliding the balcony doors shut behind him and shaking off the cold. ‘There’s—You can take one of the guest bedrooms, if you want.’

‘I don’t sleep.’

‘Right,’ says He Tian, rubbing a hand along his jaw. He knows this; as he knows they enter a stasis when they charge for firmware updates—and that time means nothing to them.

‘I don’t need comfort.’

‘It would make me feel better,’ He Tian says, with a wry smile that he thinks must fail to hide how ridiculous he feels just saying it.

The look Guan Shan gives is long and indecipherable, and He Tian thinks for a moment that he’s not going to get an answer at all unless he demands it.

But then he says, ‘Alright.’

* * *

It’s 3.47am when He Tian wakes. He doesn’t know what does it, but he’s suddenly wide awake as if he’s been startled out of sleep. He can feel the stillness of his body, muscles locked, and listens. There’s nothing. No alarm, no crash. The thick glazing of the windows and the insulation in the brick stops even the low whistle of the wind, and the whoosh of e-cars down on the streets never reaches him. For a moment, he’s convinced he can hear his own heart beating.

Then he looks to the door. A thin, orange sliver of light leaks onto the floorboards, and He Tian watches as it dips in and out, like a handle passing over a lit candle. Shadow and silent movement.

Carefully, He Tian pulls back the sheets and gets to his feet. The floorboards are silent as he walks across the floor, and he holds his breath as he twists the handle on the door. He yanks it open.

There’s no one there.

The lights are on at the end of the hall through to the kitchen, and He Tian finds Guan Shan standing behind the counter with his apron on. The TV is playing a movie on mute. He looks as if he’s been standing there all night, but the counter is busy with dishes and bowls of rice and vegetable peelings.

‘Sorry,’ Guan Shan mutters, looking up. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You didn’t, I think,’ He Tian replies. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Makin’ breakfast.’

‘It’s 4am.’

‘I like to keep busy,’ says Guan Shan gruffly. ‘Didn’t need to charge much. Spent twelve hours on the dock at your office yesterday.’ When He Tian doesn’t move, he adds, ‘It’s… kinda strange lyin’ in a bedroom without sleepin’. Or readin’. Human shit.’

‘Right,’ He Tian murmurs, rocking back on his heels. He makes a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Because you have knowledge and news at your fingertips and can read a book in a nanosecond.’

Guan Shan narrows his eyes. ‘Are you angry with me?’

‘No,’ He Tian says. ‘No, it makes… perfect sense.’

He shakes his head. For all that Guan Shan can do in an instant, he can’t cook with that kind of immediacy. Making things, creating things, growing things takes time. It’s a human skill. Something nurturing and living. Something Guan Shan is not.

He Tian’s eyes catch on the two plasters on Guan Shan’s fingers. He must have nicked himself on the knife while cutting, slicing open the thin layer of manufactured blood beneath his epidermis. Another illusion. Another flaw.

‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘Since eleven forty-eight.’

He Tian considers the spread before him, restaurant-standard and extensive. Desperate, almost. Like he’s running out of time.

He Tian’s intrigued—no, wary—of Guan Shan’s distraction with something so human. He’s only existed for two days. There are no others like him yet. Will the others be like him when they’re manufactured? What the fuck is He Tian going to say on Friday in the meeting?

Maybe Guan Shan has a fault in his firmware. Perhaps the trait will be wiped out when it’s time for release. The thought fills He Tian with fear.

He remembers She Li’s look as they ducked into a taxi to escape the cold. Smoking a cigarette. Waiting for something to happen.

‘Why are you cooking?’ He Tian asks quietly. ‘What’s programming you to do this?’

There’s a small pot of broth on the stove, which Guan Shan drifts to as if eager for the distraction. He shrugs, his back to He Tian.

‘You need to eat.’

‘Not now I don’t.’

‘But you’ll fuckin’ need to _eventually_. There’s somethin’ I can do until then.’

‘What if it goes cold? I won’t want to eat it then.’

Pausing only for a second, Guan Shan says, ‘Then I’ll make somethin’ else. Somethin’ new.’

‘Because I need to eat.’

‘Right.’

‘Not because you want to?’ He Tian asks.

‘Your needs are my wants.’

He Tian swears. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It sounds… Wrong.’

‘I was designed to fill a—a human need. I give you the time you can’t have.’

‘That’s bullshit. If you knew anything, you’d know that. We don’t need you, but we sure can make everyone think that so we can sell you.’

‘Marketin’.’

‘No,’ says He Tian. ‘Capitalism.’

‘So if it’s all made up then… Why do I feel like I do?’

‘You don’t,’ says He Tian. ‘You’re programmed. Anything you feel is manufactured.’

Guan Shan looks at him, and for a moment He Tian thinks he knows what Guan Shan has pieced together: their arguments have reversed. When did He Tian start arguing for Guan Shan’s inhumanity? When did Guan Shan start arguing for his sentience—his curiosity—his impossible _joie de vivre_ that he shouldn’t have?

Minutely, He Tian shakes his head.

Guan Shan isn’t normal.

He isn’t how he’s meant to be.

He’s broached the very thing He Tian hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since they were Linked: there’s something else there. Something under the surface—unprogrammed.

A self-awareness.

‘Shit,’ He Tian mutters.

Guan Shan’s expression crumples. His hands are in fists at his side.

He Tian’s mind runs. His father can never know—neither can He Cheng. And certainly not She Li. Somehow, that would be worse. At every avenue there is the possibility of Guan Shan’s destruction, some plug that could be pulled, forced shut down.

He Tian can’t let that happen, and the fierce sense of protection—of possession—sits strangely with him.

‘What are you gonna do?’ Guan Shan mutters.

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

He Tian’s eyes flick to the electric clock on the oven. It’s 4.30am. He Tian’s eyes are starting to sting. The thought of going into the office in a few hours makes him feel sick.

He goes to bed, tries to sleep, struggles. He can hear Guan Shan shuffling around in the kitchen until 6am, at which point he dozes for forty minutes then wakes, sore-eyed and with a headache to the buzzer on his apartment door just before 7.

‘You want me to get it?’ asks Guan Shan, hesitating near the front door as He Tian emerges from his bedroom.

‘No,’ says He Tian. ‘I think I know who it is.’ He shakes his head as he scuffs towards the front door and mutters, ‘I’m surprised he even had the decency to ring the buzzer.’ He Tian reaches for the door handle, then pauses. He glances at Guan Shan, whose gaze flickers with uncertainty between He Tian and the door. He has access to the building’s security cameras. He already knows who it is.

‘Act normal,’ He Tian instructs.

‘What kinda normal?’

He Tian gives him a look. ‘Act like a robot.’

Guan Shan’s expression flattens. ‘Yes, Mister He Tian.’

He Tian holds himself back from saying anything further and opens the door.

If Guan Shan’s look was flat, He Tian’s father’s is as straight as the North China Plains. He casts a ruthless, rudimentary gaze around the inside of He Tian’s apartment, and He Tian can count on one hand how many times his father has stepped foot inside since he first moved in, and his father seems no more impressed by the place than the first time—which was not at all.

At least it’s spotless, which counts for nothing in his eyes. Guan Shan must have cleaned the place sometime since He Tian went back to bed, tending to it as well as any mechanical servant should.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Father?’ He Tian asks, closing the door behind him as the large man steps inside. ‘Can I get you a drink? _Baijiu?_ ’

‘Morning drinking,’ the man says, smiling but unamused. ‘Picking up your mother’s habits, are you?’

He Tian’s wryly cheerful expression spasms. ‘What do you want.’

‘I was on my way to the airport and thought I’d drop by. See how you’re getting on.’

He Tian passes him, walking to the fridge and pouring himself a glass of water from the in-built filtering machine. ‘Getting sentimental in your old age?’

‘On the contrary,’ his father says, but doesn’t finish. He approaches Guan Shan, who’s been standing against the wall since the man arrived, silently waiting. Not wanting to act out of turn. With He Tian, he could move without order—actions based on instinct and a deep understanding of He Tian’s wants and needs.

He Tian smiles to himself, bitter with indulgence. What better way of understanding He Tian’s psyche when it comes to his father than standing to one side and hoping he won’t be noticed?

 _Like hiding under the covers from the monster in the closet,_ He Tian thinks, taking small, even sips of water as his father cranes his neck down to inspect the robot.

‘Do you like it?’ his father asks—an odd question, He Tian thinks.

‘It doesn’t matter whether I like it.’

‘Is it useful to you?’

‘I would’ve had more fun with something real, but it does what it’s designed to do. Were you expecting something different?’

His father straightens. ‘You were always a lonely child.’

‘Fucking hell,’ He Tian mutters. ‘You _are_ getting old.’ He puts the glass down with a dull thud on the wooden worktop. ‘Why did you give it to me? Why a prototype? They usually get handed off to the scientists in R&D.’

His father makes the sound in the back of his throat. Finally, he steps away from Guan Shan. His hands have gone behind his back.

‘You lead the department—you don’t think you should get the honour for once?’

‘Honour?’ He Tian echoes. ‘Where’s your ‘bot, Father? Where’s your _honour_?’

‘I’ve never bothered with a Companion.’

 _An android that can’t lie and tell you you’re as attractive as you think you are,_ Jian Yi had said. It’s just as well He Tian’s father doesn’t have his own. He has more flaws than He Tian that he won’t want to hold an engineered mirror to. Not even a human can stand his company.

After a moment, He Tian shrugs. ‘It’s fine. It cooks, it cleans. It fetches when I throws the ball, but the fucking thing never throws it back.’

His father is unamused, as if he expects the dry response. ‘How are you finding the personality?’

He Tian narrows his eyes. His mind flashes: Guan Shan’s scowling, short temper. His long, full gazes He Tian still can’t fully decipher. Saying _thank you_ in the back of the cab.

‘What were you hoping for?’ He Tian asks. ‘I never saw the brief the ABC team got. Are they all… like him?’

‘Every robot is unique.’

He Tian gives his father a flat look at the marketing quip. It means little to anyone in the company. It means nothing to them.

‘You’ll miss your flight,’ He Tian says.

‘I have time,’ his father says, considering Guan Shan again. ‘He’s something, isn’t he? There’s that spark in him. Something on the edge of bursting—a deep-seated displeasure. An air of slight danger that you’ll be singed by. Something you want to burn you.’ He nods to himself. ‘The red hair was a good choice. Riotous; rebellious. A good companion for youngsters. Children can act out while their parents know they’ll never get into any real trouble with an android on watch.’

‘Like I did?’

He Tian’s father’s expression tightens with false amusement. ‘No, I could never keep enough tabs on you. A shame. Perhaps you would’ve been different.’

He Tian says, ‘Better?’

‘Now who’s being sentimental.’ His father looks at his watch. ‘You’re right—I’ll be late.’

‘Will you be back for Friday’s briefing?’

‘There’s no need.’ He gestures to the robot. ‘I’ve seen all I have to.’

He Tian snorts. ‘He hasn’t said a single word.’

‘But you have,’ his father replies simply.

 _He knows_ , He Tian thinks. He forces himself to take a breath. _What did that snake tell him?_

He watches his father consider the robot one last time, his eyes sliding meaningfully to Guan Shan’s fingers—injured, bound with flesh-coloured plasters Guan Shan must have found in a bathroom cupboard—and then to He Tian. His smile is thin.

‘Clumsy,’ he remarks blandly, and then: ‘Have a good week, son. We’ll talk when I return.’

The silence lasts until He Tian’s father walks through the door and lets it thud to a shut behind him. Guan Shan has not moved from the wall where He Tian told him to stand, stock-still and silent, as if he’d forgotten not only how to not act ‘normally’ but how to act at all.

Slowly, He Tian leans forward until his forehead rests on the edge of the kitchen countertop. It hurts, slightly.

‘What’s he gonna do?’ Guan Shan mutters, talking to the closed front door.

‘Hopefully nothing.’ He Tian shuts his eyes. ‘I’m his experiment in this. We both are. He knew I wouldn’t tell him anything—he was banking on it.’

‘We could leave,’ says Guan Shan.

Slowly, He Tian stands. ‘Are you suggesting we _revolt?’_

Guan Shan pulls a face. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ _compatriot._ I’m just thinkin’ about your best interests.’

‘Or are you thinking about yours?’ He Tian walks around the counter and starts to approach him. ‘Because that would be the human thing to do. I wouldn’t fault you for it.’

Guan Shan turns himself around, back to the door, his body face-on to He Tian’s. They’re a handful of steps apart from one another when He Tian comes to a stop, and Guan Shan has to crane his head a little to look up at him.

‘I can’t override that feature,’ he says eventually.

‘Hm?’ He Tian asks. ‘Which one is that?’

He almost wants to laugh: a fucking _android_ is luring him into the intoxicating possibility of running away. What a headline that would make.

‘My needs are your wants. We’re Linked. Whether you like it or not.’

‘Or not,’ He Tian echoes aloud. He thinks about the phrase, mulls it over. He considers the closed door his father just walked through. He thinks about the presentation he’ll have to put together for Friday, Guan Shan reduced to data on a screen, the strange way it makes his skin feel sore and oversensitised just to think about. He says, ‘It seems I do like it.’

Guan Shan blinks. The maddening line folds into existence between his brows.

‘You hated me two days ago,’ he says.

‘I wasn’t keen on housing my father’s spy.’

‘What’s changed?’

‘I don’t think you are one,’ says He Tian. He folds his arms, smiles. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him—this whole thing could be his idea…’ He considers it silently: would his father want him to run so he’d be out of the way? Perhaps he’d want He Tian so he could simply drag He Tian back. There’s no easy answer. It’s a risk He Tian’s going to have to take.

‘I think you’re what you’re meant to be,’ He Tian continues. ‘And flawed or not, I’m quite keen not to see that change.’

Guan Shan frowns. ‘So we’re stayin’?’

‘For now,’ He Tian says. _We._ He enjoys the way the word sounds and says, ‘We are.’

**Author's Note:**

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